After 23 years of exile in the West, my father and I returned in the summer of 2003 to Afghanistan. He wanted to rediscover our homeland. I wanted to undertake a religious visitation or ziyarat. Together we planned a trip to northern Afghanistan.

By the time we reached the Tashkurgan corridor in Samangan province, I cursed my sense of adventure and curiosity. Packed in a Flying Coach van (pronounced "Felang" Coach by Afghans) between my portly father and uncle, with no air conditioning in the summer heat, I felt relief traveling on a paved road again. Because the Salang Pass tunnel, a more direct route, was closed for construction, we traveled though the grueling Shibar Pass -- a narrow winding dirt road flanked by the high Hindu Kush mountains and shallow ravines. Many trucks traveled the tight pass, kicking up massive clouds of dirt and powdering our black eyelashes khaki. After three days and two overnight stops, we arrived in Balkh province and its capital Mazar-e Sharif, meaning "tomb of the noble one."

According to Afghan lore, Ali -- the fourth caliph of Islam and the first infallible imam of Shi'ites -- is buried in Mazar-e Sharif. Most Muslims believe Imam Ali's real tomb is in Najaf, Iraq. But for centuries, Afghans made the pilgrimage to the shrine in Mazar-e Sharif. Afghans have a long history and affinity for ziyarat. Thousands of elaborate and makeshift shrines dedicated to martyrs and saints exist in Afghanistan.

The purpose of a ziyarat is to read the Quran's opening chapter, fatiha, over the grave, and you ask the shrine's inhabitant to plea to God on your behalf. Some Muslims travel for days, by foot, to reach a shrine. I wondered if our bone-jarring ride up the Shibar pass qualified for extra blessings.

Mazar-e Sharif, 200 miles from the Afghan capital, was renowned for its textile factories. However, like many places in Afghanistan, the city did not escape 25 years of war. Yet some basic services like electricity are more reliable than in Kabul.

Some describe Mazar-e Sharif as a liberal city, but to my surprise, I found women in the busy bazaars wearing blue or white burqas. Under the shadow of a warlord's guns, no place is liberal for an Afghan woman. Throughout Afghanistan, the various warlords' private militias are known to kidnap and rape women. The burqa is often a shield in a poor security environment.

Located in the city's center, the Imam Ali mosque is called Rowza. Destroyed and rebuilt several times over the centuries, the tomb is located in the middle of an ornate-tile mosque. The mosque sits on a marble courtyard that shimmers like a clear pool in sunlight. White doves flap above and perch on turquoise domes and minarets. A unique peace and beauty rests here.

I walked barefooted through the mosque doors.

"Watch your bag," a relative told me. "There are a lot of thieves here."

Thieves in a sanctuary?

A man circled around the tomb, winding a long, white string around it. Women stretched their hands asking for the string, believing whoever wears it will be cured of jaundice, a common condition in Afghanistan.

I approached the tomb, placed my forehead against the smooth wood, partially covered by golden panels. The wood smelled sweet. I inhaled the musk and recited the fatiha. Before finishing, unexpectedly, I began crying.